Bright Lights
by LondonBelow
Summary: Maureen can't believe it's her Roger treating her like this...


Written for the Rentforbastards challenge of twisting a cliche. My cliche is Roger being an abusive jerk. Please read to the end if you want to comment. Some of this is taken directly from my school.

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson

His fingers dig into my hair, hard, twining through my braid. He forces my chin up, forces me to face him.

He looks so different… so furious. He doesn't look like my Roger. He's become someone else. Or perhaps it's that he's become some_thing_ else. Whatever it is, it scares me. My heart races painfully in my chest, and beads of sweat pop out of my pores.

Roger's fingers are cold as he caresses my cheek, and a whimper slithers past my lips. I don't want to look at him, I don't, he's _scaring me_ and making me feel, more than anything, uncomfortably dry, and I think this'll hurt like hell as I stare up at him, whimpering quick little gasps into his open mouth.

This is not my Roger. This is not the boy whose hazel eyes dance with mischief, who laughs first and loudest and longest, who tells jokes about politics and race and sex and farts. I search for him, can't find him. I look away.

Roger takes my chin between two fingers and forces me to look at him again. And that's when he tells me that he never loved me.

My throat is tight. I struggle, and whimper, and the words squeeze out: "I was the more deceived!" Fool! I was a stupid, petty little girl, to ever think he loved me.

And he shouts. He shouts into my face, holding me as I whine and struggle against him, his fingers still clutching the strands of my braid. He shouts that I belong in a brothel, I'm a whore, and _go!_.

I would! I would if only he let me I would run so far… Tears well behind my eyes.

Roger pushes me, both hands flat on my chest he pushes me down to the floor and kneels over me, so close still I feel him breathing, his breath into my panting mouth. Roger's form is outlined by the too-bright lights, spotlights on me in this awful moments, and all the blank faces watching me, some even smiling, none moving to interfere.

Roger's knee rests millimeters from my groin, so close I can practically feel its pressure.

The floor is hard. My fingers scrabble for a hold. They find only rough smoothness and dust and tape. Desperate for any focus outside of fear, I pick at the masking tape.

I swear every part of my reproductive system is trying to climb up into my uterus, shrinking away from the pressure. I fight to close my eyes, fight to watch him, as though by watching him I can stop it from happening.

_Please don't please don't please don't_

A chip of crimson nail polish ticks off on the tape. I'm too weak to fight Roger. I'm too weak even to fight this tape. Just the pumping of my heart hurts as though I've run for miles. Sweat pools in my armpits.

Roger keeps shouting at me. I try to block out the words. I try to remember Roger singing gently, how his eyes close and his body sways. The music is always so beautiful. Now his voice holds no beauty, only cruelty.

My muscles tense to a degree of pain. If he does… it'll hurt. I'll be so tight, and not in the least lubricated.

I whine as Roger touches the top button of my blouse.

"Wise men," he spits, telling me that I'll never have a man, never marry, "know well enough what monsters you make of them!" He emphasizes "monsters", letting me know just what he thinks of me.

His nails tap against the second button, third, touching the reflection of the glare from those too-bright, blinding lights.

He lifts my shoulders roughly, brings my face close to his. I can see each green fleck in his eyes. I can smell the pizza he had for lunch. My fingertips search for the tape, I can't find it, he brings his face close to mine and don't, Roger, don't, Roger, don't…

Roger jumps back. "I'm sorry!" he cries. "I'm sorry. I can't."

"That's okay." I can hear Mr. Griffith nodding. "You guys don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with—remember, it's just acting, and I can see that you're trying. There are other ways to do Hamlet."

Roger nods. "It's just… sorry. I like the idea, but…"

"It's fine, Roger. I know you're trying. Maureen, are you okay?"

I blink up at the bright stage lights. "Yeah." I sit up and shake my head. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You guys are sure you want to do this?" Mr. Griffith asks. He's a lanky man with floppy brown hair that looks grey from a distance.

"Yeah," Roger says. It wasn't his idea to run the scene this way.

"It's fun," I add, enjoying the adrenaline rush now that the fear has faded.

"Okay." The bell chimes, and the twenty-odd kids sitting on the stage gather backpacks.

"Hey!" I jog to catch Roger; he's almost three-quarters of a foot taller than me and uses the length in his legs for speed. He pauses and turns to face me, looking drained. "You were great." I throw my arms around his shoulders and give a reassuring squeeze.

Roger smiles. "Thanks, Mo."

The end!

Reviews? Pretty please?


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